Compromised
by Baloo
Summary: What’s more dangerous than being a transgenic when the whole country’s hunting you down? How about being a transgenic with amnesia... You guessed it: it’s a return-of-Zack story. M/Z
1. Futures Remembered, Pasts Forgotten

**Disclaimer:** I claim ownership of nothing. 

**Summary:** What's more dangerous than being a transgenic when the whole country's hunting you down? How about being a transgenic with amnesia… You guessed it: it's a return-of-Zack story. 

**Spoilers:** Anything from either season's fair game. Set somewhere after the season finale. 

**A/N:** After the last couple of episodes of the season, I've been wondering, frantically, 'What about Zack?!' The guy's got amnesia and the rest of the world has kill-the-transgenics fever… hmm, strikes me as being more than a little vulnerable in his current condition. I thought it was unfair for them to just ignore his whole situation, so that spawned this little story idea. 

  
  
  
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Compromised 

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Prologue: Futures Remembered, Pasts Forgotten 

  
  
**--The Future, not the Past--**

  
If there's one thing she knew about the past, it's that that's where it belongs. 

She'd learned that lesson slowly, the hard way, but she'd learned it. You can't clutch to the past while heading toward the future. One of them had to give. One of them, you had to let go. And that choice was already made for her. For better or for worse, through no decision of her own, she had an important role in the future—a role unknown, but no less crucial for it. 

She had to live for the future. 

Max watched Joshua's flag—all of theirs flag now—blow in the wind, the new sensation of fierce pride flowing through her veins. Her hand gripped Logan's tighter, and when she finally tore her eyes away from that sight, directing them toward him, a small smile graced her lips. At the same instant, Logan turned and met her gaze. 

She raised her hand, holding his, to bring their intertwined fingers into view. "Thank you," she told him softly. "For this, for what you did today, for everything you've done these past few weeks, even with all that's been going on between us." His expression warmed visibly at her words, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. But he said nothing, waiting for her to continue. 

With a small breath, she did. "And thank you for the past two years. For everything you've done, and everything you've been. And for understanding." She squeezed his hand once and released, and now that small smile on his face faltered slightly, confusion claiming those blue eyes. "I'll never forget all that you've done for me." 

Her fingers pried loose of his, gently but deliberately, and he didn't stop her. He was too busy staring at her face, all warmth having disappeared from his own. 

But Max was still smiling, a soft expression of contentment and acceptance, and though she knew he didn't understand now, she hoped he would in time. 

Because moving forward meant letting go. And she had finally let go. 

  
  
  
**--The Past, or no Future--**

  
If there's one thing he knew about the future, it's that it can't exist without the past. 

But he had no past to speak of, no point from which to begin the process of moving forward. It didn't matter what little bits and pieces the others gave him, because _he_ didn't remember it. And if he didn't remember, it was useless. 

He who does not learn from history is doomed to repeat it. 

Funny how he could remember something like that—some anonymous quote he'd picked up who knew when, under what circumstances—but he couldn't remember something as simple the sound of his name spoken by a familiar voice. Not the voices he heard during the day, the ones that provided him with those bits and pieces of the past, but the ones that haunted him in the middle of the night. The voices that cried out to him when he had no power to respond, voices that begged for him to remember. 

It was an itch beneath his skin, one that he could scratch and scratch and scratch at, but never reach. 

The others told him to move on, to live and let the past return in its own time. But what they didn't know, what they didn't understand was that without the past, he couldn't move on. 

It was like being plotted down halfway through a maze and being told to find his way to the finish. Except he had no idea which way was forward, and which way back. Every step he considered taking was wracked with indecision. A part of him said that it was tactically unsound to make a move without being fully apprised of the situation. 

_Success depends on having a well thought-out plan that's executed with precision._

But another part told him he just _needed_ to know. When he looked into the mirror, he needed to know whose face it was that stared back at him. When he went slept at night, he needed to know whose dreams it was that he dreamt. 

Without the past there is no future. And if he wanted the future, Adam had to find his past. 

  
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_--to be continued--_

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	2. Illusions in Relief

**Disclaimer:** No familiar characters belong to me; all unfamiliar ones are mine. The lyrics are from Sarah McLachlan's "Back Door Man". 

  
  
  
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Compromised 

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Chapter 1: Illusions in Relief 

  
  
_Now, all you've been allowed  
Is taken away – they will not let you be so proud  
And you have the fear growing inside  
Protest follows far and wide – they'll see how long  
It will take 'till you fall – from so much denied_

  
"Adam." Buddy's anxious round face came into view, grayed hair disheveled, features belying the forced patient tone of his voice. He was breathing a little heavily, as if he had run from the house down to where Adam and a few of the other workers were putting up the new fence. 

Adam raised his eyebrows questioningly, glancing away momentarily from the task at hand. 

"When you finish up with that bit there, I need you to do a run into town," Buddy continued hurriedly, wiping away a line of perspiration from his forehead. But something in his demeanor said that sweat had less to do with the present warm temperatures than other more pressing concerns. "Just a few supplies we need. Thought I'd get them myself today—but looks like my girl decided to go into labor a couple a days early." 

Another one of the men, Eddie Williams, came up behind Buddy and clapped him once on the shoulder, a loud, dramatic gesture. A wide grin split his face. "So how's the anxious poppa-to-be?" he inquired. "You planning to videotape the event, hand out cigars when this is all done?" 

Adam smiled slightly, observing the good-natured glare Buddy shot the other man. "Am I paying you to do work, or shoot off your mouth with smart-ass comments?" 

"You're just payin' him for the work… the smart-ass comments come free of charge." That was Joe Littleton, his slow, easy drawl drifting over from where he was putting together the gate that they would later be attaching to the finished product of the fence. He was a little more serious that Eddie, and quieter, but still nowhere near as serious or quiet as Adam, who always placed top in both categories. 

"Ha, ha," Eddie replied, unfazed. "But it's my light-hearted banter that makes this whole coming to work thing so worthwhile. Admit it, you guys would be completely lost without it." 

Joe snorted, but said nothing. Buddy turned back to Adam, who nodded reassuringly, "Sure Buddy, I'll take care of it. You just go take care of your girl." 

Buddy's 'girl' was Emerald, a pregnant mare and his pride and joy. He indulged the horse so much, treating her like another member of his family that his wife, Mary, affectionately referred to her as "the other woman" in her husband's life. 

The big man nodded once and gave him a distracted smile as he handed him a slip of paper. "Thanks Adam. I knew I could count on you." Then he spared a mock frown at Eddie—who ducked his head and bent over his work, whistling loudly as he swung his hammer in exaggerated movements—before hurrying away to be at Emerald's side. 

Just seconds after his large frame disappeared from sight a new voice spoke up from not far away. "And there you have it, Buddy's little golden boy to the rescue." 

Adam said nothing, but couldn't help the slight hardening of his jaw. "Pete, lay off," he heard Joe intone in a quiet voice, and it seemed he wasn't in the mood for Pete Heppner's petty bitching either. 

Pete was neither a particularly bright nor receptive man, and he managed to fail to pick up on the other man's warning tone. "What I don't get it is," he began, working slowly as he spoke, his gaze trained constantly on Adam, who kept his own solely focused on the fence, "why _he_ gets the plush job of driving to town to shop while the rest of us stay out here in the scorching sun, picking up his slack." 

"Because Buddy _asked_ him to, that's why," Joe replied testily. "And we're not picking up anyone else's slack"—he looked at Pete pointedly—"except maybe yours." 

"Besides," Eddie broke in lightly, trying to diffuse the situation with humor—not likely to be successful, but no one could fault him for the attempt. "That ain't such a plush job. Damn truck doesn't even have any air conditioning!" 

"Right," Pete said, ignoring Eddie and replying to Joe's answer, "but what does he do that makes Buddy always pick him for these jobs?" 

Adam grit his teeth, not pleased with being referred to in the third person when he was clearly within hearing distance. Finishing with the task, he stood up from his crouch, brushing his hands on dusty jeans as he did so. He knew what Pete was trying to do, and he wasn't going to rise to the bait. Even though a part of him, a deep buried part, was telling him he shouldn't be taking this from anyone, let alone a fool like Pete. 

_All it'd take is one blow, one strategically placed blow—and not even a whole lot of effort—and Pete Heppner won't be filling_ anyone's_ ears with _anything_, ever again._

Adam blinked, brushing away the invasive thought. He wasn't surprised; it wasn't the first time he'd had such an urge. But he'd never acted on them, and as far as he was concerned, that was all that mattered. Even though he never knew where they came from. Even though he couldn't explain why they felt so much more right than backing down and walking away. 

But he left, not once showing a reaction to the words, ignoring the angry gleam in the other man's eyes as he failed, once again, to get the desired response. Because this wasn't about doing what he _wanted_—it was about keeping a low profile. _Keep a low profile and don't compromise your position._

He wasn't sure what that meant, but an image flashed abruptly in his mind—like a streak of lightning, providing sudden illumination—a dark night, some sort of deserted yard, and pleading eyes. 

_Don't go._

And like lightning, it was gone almost immediately. 

But suddenly he knew he'd done this before—walked away from something he wanted for the sake of keeping a low profile. 

  


~*~ 

  
It was a week and a half later, a week and a half of relative normalcy, when he was coming down the stairs that he caught the tail end of the conversation taking place within the kitchen. He couldn't blame them—Buddy and Mary—for not noting his presence. For someone, though not exceptionally large, but neither particularly small, he had an incredibly light step. People rarely heard him coming, and seemed to only realize his arrival if he'd deliberately done something to tip them off. 

Like so many things in his life, he couldn't explain why a hired hand working on a ranch for the past three and a half years would be required to move with such stealth that he could achieve it without the slightest effort. Chalk it up to the mysteries of amnesia and the secrets that lay therein. 

"Mary, I just don't think it's safe for him here anymore," Buddy's hushed voice insisted. 

Mary was equally quiet as she replied, though Adam had no trouble hearing either of them, "And you think it'd be safer for him anywhere else? You know as much about this as I do—it wasn't safe for him there, back then, why would it be any different now? Especially with all that's going on these days… Buddy, we can't send him back there." 

He didn't know why he stayed there, listening in, except maybe because instinct told him the conversation was about him. 

There was a scraping noise, the sound of a chair moving across the floor, then a slight creak of wood as Buddy sat down. "I'm not _sending_ him anywhere. I'm just saying he has a right to know, to make the decision on his own. If we don't give him that option, how long do you think it'll be before he makes the connection himself? Or worse, someone else makes it for him." There was a momentary pause. "Mary, when he first came here, things were different. But now… it's him I'm afraid for, not us." 

He heard Mary give a defeated sigh. "I know, I know. It's just that—he's such a sweet boy. I can't believe all those things they're saying… they're not true. Not about our Adam, the things they're saying just can't be true." 

What things, and _who_ was saying them? 

The conversation in the kitchen had ended and he waited a half-minute, letting the tension in the room die down before walking in. A smile and a good morning, a no thank-you to breakfast, a cup of coffee—black—would do just fine. He said nothing to indicate he had heard anything on his way down. He let them pretend that everything was just fine, let them keep up the pretense of normalcy. But he knew nothing was normal, or fine. 

He pushed the thoughts aside and set about his usual routine. It wasn't until later that night, when he was reminded through other means, that he thought again upon the content of that conversation. 

The bar wasn't all that noisy, but too noisy for his tastes. He sipped his beer slowly, not that he particularly enjoyed the taste, nor did it have any effect on him, no matter how much he drank. 

He was only here because the others had all but dragged him along, Eddie and Joe and some of the other guys who worked up at the ranch. It wasn't that he was averse to company, or the presence of others, it was just that he hated to be in places like this. He always felt too exposed—vulnerable. In a room full of strangers, who knew what each was doing there, who was the enemy. 

_They're all the enemy. They're not like you._

Of course they were. There was nothing about him that set him apart, aside from the amnesia, and that didn't make him _different._

_Liar_, the voice whispered. _You're so different you don't even know where to begin._

Maybe with the hearing, as demonstrated earlier. Or maybe with the strength, or the stamina. Or what about how he could sit here and drink beer after beer, never feeling the slightest bit intoxicated, and still possess reflexes far superior to those of anyone around him? 

And he wasn't _different_? 

He shook his head, so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice his visitor until a voice spoke up, "Hey, well if it ain't golden boy himself." 

Adam tensed, his mug frozen halfway between his mouth and the counter of the bar he was sitting at. "Pete," he said without looking at the other man, "why don't you go find yourself another source of entertainment tonight?" 

"Aw, c'mon Adam," his voice was slurred from the few too many drinks he'd had already, "I just wanna have a friendly little conversation here." 

His mug rested softly on the wooden surface, deceptive gentleness in the movement. Now he did turn to face him, his words spoken quietly, but slow so the other man would be sure to comprehend them, "You're drunk and there's no such thing as a 'friendly conversation' between the two of us. So back off, because I'm really not in the mood for any of your shit tonight." 

A little alcohol can do wonders for a man's bravado, and great damage to his intelligence. "Oh really?" he grinned widely. "I'd like to see you do something about that. I'd like to see the pretty boy show me just how big, bad, and tough he can be. Or," he continued, glancing around the bar in an exaggerated show of searching the crowds, "were you just planning to call one of your brave defenders to your rescue?" 

Adam turned his head away, telling himself the man was drunk and anything he shot he took, since he was sober, would be unfair and cheap. Then a hand grabbed his shoulder. "I'm talkin' to ya boy! 'Least have the balls to look at me." 

Adam threw Pete's hand off, putting enough force into the movement to throw the other man back. The alcohol had already taken its toll on his equilibrium, and it was enough to cause him to lose his balance, and send him falling flat on his ass onto the floor. 

The room silenced suddenly, all eyes turning toward the pair. That quelled his sudden anger somewhat, and feeling their gazes upon him, Adam stood from his stool, not bothering to finish his beer. It looked like it was time to leave. Joe, Eddie and others would understand him ducking out early today. 

But Pete, apparently, didn't. Adam had his back turned as he pulled on his coat, when he was grabbed from behind, by the collar. "Where do you—" He faltered when Adam turned, eyes like pieces of flint and anger causing the tight coiling of every muscle in his body. 

Adam took a step forward, reveling in the sudden fear in the other man's eyes, and fully intent on pushing aside every bit of caution and restraint within himself But he never got a chance to act, as Joe stepped between the two men. "Pete," he said in a tone brooking no argument, "It's time for you to leave." 

To both of theirs surprise, Pete didn't put up any resistance, merely lifted his hands in a surrendering gesture, and backed off slowly. His eyes were wide, almost primal in the obvious display of fear, and any previous anger had suddenly dissipated, leaving him much more sober than seconds earlier. Somehow, though, that didn't make Adam feel any better. 

"Look guys, I don't want any trouble," he said, though his actions just moments ago said the exact opposite. "I'm leavin'." And true to his word, he gathered his own coat, eyes never leaving the pair, and hurried out the door. 

Following his departure, business quickly resumed as normal within the small establishment. Conversations picked up where they'd left off, the television's volume went up, and billiard balls began clinking once more. 

Joe turned toward his friend apologetically. "Hey, if you wanna go, I understand. Sorry we dragged you along just to have you to have to face this shit." 

Adam shook his head, giving a slight—though not particularly happy—smile. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault Pete's a complete jackass." Then he shrugged and gave the room a cursory glance. "But yeah, I think I will go home now. It's late enough—I'll probably just get some extra sleep." The other man nodded understandingly, and with a parting clap on his shoulder, let him go. 

Adam turned to leave, but as he passed the bar's sole television, he found himself slowing at the words of the newscaster. 

"… the second week of the siege, with no move made yet by either side. Experts estimate the number of these transgenics to be in the hundreds, perhaps even thousands, some visibly identifiable, while others are more difficult to detect. It's the so-called X-series that are of particular concern to officials and citizens alike. These individuals appear as you or I, perfectly able to blend within the regular population. The only thing that sets them apart in appearance is the barcode tattoo found at the base of their necks…" 

"Damn freaks," he heard someone mutter. 

"Authorities warn that there is reason to doubt that all of these transgenics, who escaped with the destruction of the facility several months ago, run by a secret government-funded organization by the name of Manticore, are currently residing within Terminal City…" 

"I say we just nuke the place, kill 'em all," someone piped up. 

"Ah, the government can't just kill them all. Some bleeding heart would probably take it up with the Human Rights Council." 

"Don't matter," he other person returned. "They're not human, they were _created_ in labs. So, technically, they can't be protected by the _Human_ Rights Council… and they don't have a council for freaks, so tough shit." 

"Hey Bubba, that's pretty deep thinking for you. You read that in a newspaper somewhere?" A bit of laughter followed, while 'Bubba' attempted to defend his intelligence. 

Adam didn't wait around to hear any more. 

  


~*~

  
911 Transcript taken from call received May 14, 2021, 10:32 p.m.: 

OPERATOR: 9-1-1, may I help you? 

CALLER: Yeah, I saw one of 'em… Shit, I _know_ one of 'em! I can't believe it… I always knew there was somethin' different about that kid, somethin' _wrong_— 

OPERATOR: Sir, please calm down… What did you see? 

CALLER: One of those mutant freaks from on T.V.! A transgenic. I saw his barcode… I _knew_ it! I just _knew_ it! 

OPERATOR: Where did you see this transgenic? 

CALLER: At the bar, but I saw him leave after that… I didn't say nothing, because I didn't know what he'd do. You should've seen the look in his eyes… he woulda killed me if he had the chance. 

OPERATOR: Where is he now? 

CALLER: I don't know… I lost track of 'em. But I know where he's probably headed—to the ranch. 

OPERATOR: The ranch? 

CALLER: Yeah, Buddy Garrett's ranch—that's where I work… where _we_ work… Damn, I still don't believe it! All this time, there was one right there next to me. 

OPERATOR: Sir, you're saying you know the identity of this transgenic? 

CALLER: Yeah, that's what I'm sayin'! His name's Adam, Adam Thompson. 

  
_**

--to be continued--

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	3. Pulling Skeletons

**Disclaimer:** Lyrics from Fiona Apple's "Never is a Promise". 

  
  
  
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Compromised 

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Chapter 2: Pulling Skeletons 

  
  
_You'll never live this life that I live  
I'll never live the life that wakes me in the night  
You'll never hear the message I give  
You'll say it looks as though I might give up this fight…_

  
He let the front door slam behind him, and regarded Mary impassively as she came down the stairs and glanced over at the noise. 

"Where's Buddy?" 

She looked startled, by both his abrupt tone and his changed demeanor. "In the kitchen," she said hesitantly. "Adam, is something wrong?" 

He didn't answer. As he walked into the other room, he heard her follow quickly. Buddy sat at the table, and as the pair entered the room, he peered up at them from his paper. Returning his coffee mug to the tabletop, he looked first at Adam, then his wife, then back to the other man. "What's up, Adam?" he asked slowly. 

Adam pulled down the collar of his shirt, and brushed aside the longish blond hair that covered the back of his neck, exposing the black marks to both sets of eyes trained upon him. "What is this?" he demanded. 

"Oh Adam, we told you about that before," Mary's soothing voice responded shortly, "It's just a—" 

"No," he interrupted, before she could go on. His gray eyes hardened as he took in the lined, slightly rounded face, the one that he had come to trust unquestioningly over the past three and a half months. "Don't tell me it's just a tattoo. You know as well as I do that it's not just a tattoo." There was almost a menacing undertone to his words, one that surprised him almost as much as it surprised Mary and Buddy. And it demanded answers; it demanded the truth. 

"I was at the bar just now," he explained, forcing a calmness he didn't truly feel. "I saw the news." The pair before him exchanged glances, confirming his suspicions that they did indeed know something they weren't telling him. 

Still, they weren't quite ready to give up the pretense. Buddy shrugged. "Is that what's got you riled up? What does a little T.V. have to do with some tattoo you got years ago?" 

There were no televisions on the ranch—the service wasn't provided this far out from town. Back before the Pulse, it seemed it had been, but things had changed afterward and in the past decade or so, Buddy and his family had simply done without it. In fact, he knew very little, just that snippet of information he had caught on his way out. 

"Because apparently I'm not the only one with this tattoo. In fact, there seems to be a whole group of people—transgenics—out there with barcodes tattooed on the backs of their necks. And the government is hunting them down." 

That last bit didn't bother him as much as it should have. In fact, something told him he should be quite used to being hunted, being on the run and constantly looking over his shoulder. It was why he felt so uneasy staying in crowded rooms, why every stranger appeared a threat until they proved themselves otherwise. 

"That—" Mary faltered, stumbling to explain it away. "That's in Seattle, not around here… and tattoos are common—who's to say yours has anything to do with all that?" 

"You know I'm different," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm not normal." 

Buddy stood from his seat. "Of course not. Of course you are." He walked toward Adam, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Son, you've worked for me for three years. Those transgenics have only been out for a few months since that building burned down—you _can't_ be one of them." 

An image flashed in Adam's mind, an image of a dark forest and children running through the underbrush. Behind them loomed a large facility. That place—they had left it, they had escaped. There was no fire, no flames burning in the night sky. No, he hadn't left during the fire. 

He pushed the thought away. "You _say_ I've worked here for the past three years, but I only remember the past three months." Glancing, from Buddy to Mary, he questioned, "How do I know you're telling the truth?" 

Buddy looked bewildered at his words. "Why would we lie?" 

Why? He didn't know. That was what he was here to find out. He shook his head. "You know I'm different," he said quietly, "I'm not normal." 

"Of course—" Mary began, but he interrupted. 

"Of course, nothing," he said harshly. "I am not normal." He bit each word of slowly, emphatically. "I can hear and see things that I should be able to, not from that far away. I barely sleep, never more than three or four hours a night—and don't even tell me it's insomnia. If it was insomnia, then I would be _tired_. But I'm not, I rarely ever get tired, no matter how long or hard I work… and I'm strong, too strong. Someone my size, my weight, shouldn't be able to lift as much as I can." He paused and looked at them each in turn. "Is that enough, or should I go on?" 

They looked… startled. What, did they think he simply wouldn't _notice_ all those things? That he would close his eyes and blindly go about his life without the smallest amount of awareness of his own body and limitations—or seeming lack thereof? 

"Is that what I am? Am I one of those transgenics?" 

There was silence in the room. Then Buddy slouched back against the wall, a defeated look on his face. He glanced toward Mary, and began, "We didn't know ourselves at first. I mean, we were told you were—different—that you had certain special abilities. The abnormal strength, something about enhanced senses…" He looked toward Adam appealingly. "But we didn't know anything about transgenics until we heard about it on the news, like everybody else. Yeah, we made the connection right away, especially because of the barcode and all—but no one ever told us." 

"Who?" he demanded relentlessly. "Who never told you?" 

The older man sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. "A friend of a friend, I suppose you could say. Never really told me who or gave any details of your prior life; thought it was better if we didn't know, for some reason. I guess, knowing what I do now, I understand the need for secrecy." 

Adam walked away from them, leaning against the sink, his palms spread out on the flat surface. He stared out the window, looking out into the darkness. And wasn't it strange how he could make out every tree, every shape and outline as easily as if it were day? It had always struck him as so, but not anymore. Not now that he knew what he was—even if he didn't know _who_. 

"Why was I sent here?" 

Mary answered, quietly, "For your protection. They—whoever arranged for this—thought you'd be safe here. We were supposed to keep you safe." 

He glanced down from the window, but kept his back to them. "So all that about me working here for three years now… that was a lie." It wasn't a question, really, but Buddy answered anyway. 

"The first time we met was in that hospital in Seattle three and a half months ago. Never before that." 

Adam nodded. He had already suspected as much. "And the others? Do they know any of this?" 

"No. Joe knows, of course, that you didn't work here before… he'd have to, since he's been working at the ranch for just over six years himself. He knows that we told you that to protect you"—there it was again, that word: protect; somehow, Adam had the feeling that _he_ wasn't the one who needed protection… he was the one who provided it—"but he doesn't anything about why. And everyone else has no idea; they were all hired after you came here anyway. I think that's part of the reason why we were picked in the first place—because aside from Joe, all my other guys are seasonal workers. I hire them when I need extra help, and the rest of the time me, Mare, and Joe take care of the work. So no one else would know whether you'd worked here for three years or three months." 

Three people—not much exposure. 

_Too much_, the voice disagreed. _Three too many._

He ignored it. Turning from the window, he faced them once more. "So this isn't me. I'm not 'Adam Thompson'." 

The older man appeared slightly taken aback. He glanced toward his wife, who shared his look. "I guess, maybe not… that was the name we were given. I figured the last name was a fake—but Adam's probably still your real name," Buddy assured. 

He thought about that, and shook his head. "No, no it's not." Though he couldn't explain how he knew that, he knew it was true. 

  


~*~

  
"I called the number," Buddy said as they stood in the doorway, beneath the yellowish gleam of the porch light, "the one that they gave me for emergencies. It wasn't a direct line—a message service—so I left one. But there's no address or anything, so there's not much you can do until this person returns the call" 

Adam shook his head. "No, I know where to go." 

Buddy and Mary stared back, puzzled. "Where…?" 

"Terminal City." 

Their frowns deepened. Mary spoke, "Now Adam, it's far too dangerous there. How are you even going to get past the police and the army, who are guarding all the fences?" 

"I'll figure out a way, Mare, don't worry." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Besides, I'm a big boy… with superpowers, apparently." 

"And that's why you have to be careful," she replied. "You were fine here because they weren't looking for you, but in Seattle thing's are a lot different." She reached up and brushed down the hair hanging over the back of his neck. "Keep it covered up," she instructed as if he were a child going out into the snow and she was telling him to put on his gloves. 

"Here," Buddy held out a set of keys, dropping them into Adam's outstretched hand. "Take care of my baby," he said with a half-grin. 

"Your baby?" Mary cut in with mock scorn. "First Emerald, now the truck—and what does that make _me_?" 

"The thorn in my side," he replied solemnly, but his face broke out into a smile as she swatted his arm. 

"Don't worry," Adam told him. "I'm only going to take it into town. After that, I'm planning to switch vehicles anyway." 

Mary raised an eyebrow at that. "By 'switching vehicles', are you saying that you're going to _steal_ one?" 

Adam opened his mouth to reply, but caught the look that Buddy shot him. It wasn't as if he felt guilty at the prospect, although he recognized it was something that one might—should—feel guilt for. _It's necessary_, something told him. _You do what you have to; you don't have time for guilt_. Instead he said nothing, and sent a backward glance over his shoulder, at the truck, indicating it was time for him to go. Mary gave him a hug, some more maternal advice, and Buddy clapped him on the back, told him to take care of himself. He gave them both a small smile. 

"Hey, I'll probably be back soon," he said, even while the voice in his head told him that was a lie. "I still have to say goodbye to Joe, Eddie, and the others." They returned his smile, though they appeared somewhat skeptical. 

Despite what he'd learned in the past few hours, he still felt regret at the thought of leaving them, and the life that he'd built here over the months. He wasn't angry for them lying to him, not really. Somehow, he knew that lies could be a necessary part of life sometimes, and he couldn't really fault them for wanting to protect him. Besides, they weren't the ones who put him here. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was lost in thought as he drove down the deserted street to town, grasping at memories that seemed just barely out of reach. But not so lost that he didn't notice the vehicles when they passed him, black with tinted windows, like a grim convoy in the night. His heart sped up slightly, and he straightened even further in his seat. He didn't let himself relax until they were long out of sight, and even then he let the speedometer slide over a few more miles. Nothing so much that it would attract attention, but enough so it would cut the length of his trip by a few minutes. 

But there was no reason to think that it had anything to do with him—why, of all nights, would they be coming for him now, just when he'd figured out what he was and decided to leave? It had to be a coincidence. 

_You can't afford to believe in coincidences._

It was a few minutes later that he noticed the truck behind him—black, tinted, just like the ones that had passed him—sending an alarm off inside his head. It was gaining on him, driving at perhaps twice the speed limit—even for nighttime joy riding that would have been a bit excessive. 

Adam hit the gas and evaluated his situation. But he didn't have a chance to finish the thought though as he heard a loud explosion and a half-second later the entire truck shook as if experiencing a violent seizure. The steering wheel was clutched tight in his hands, but useless as the vehicle swerved erratically, spinning across the road and off the side. It was too late to change what was happening, so he did the only thing he could do—he strapped himself in and held on tight. 

The truck flipped several times, the sound of metal grinding against metal and cement assaulting his ears, even as his body was jarred inside the mess, limbs ripping painfully in every direction. And it seemed to go on and on and on in a never-ending spiral. 

When it did finally end, and he opened his eyes, he suspected that he might have blacked out, at least for a few seconds. His head pounded, his body ached, but he pushed that all aside, blinking rapidly through the settling dust, to reach for his seatbelt. It was jammed, and he yanked at until it tore loose. No smell of gas, so he didn't have to worry about explosions, but there was still the little issue of whoever had shot him off the road—and no doubt, they weren't about to leave it at that and walk away. 

The vehicle had landed upside down, and when the seatbelt fell away, he flipped as he dropped to the ceiling. The door handle gave way fairly easily, and ignoring the pain screaming through his entire body, from head to foot, as he did so, he pulled himself free. He turned onto his back and glanced up, only to find himself staring down—or up, as from his perspective—the barrel of a gun. 

At the other end of the deadly piece of metal was a man in a dark suit and tie, someone Adam was sure he'd never seen before. The man smiled, not the warm, open expression of Buddy, or the motherly smile of Mary, but something more slithery and sinister. It was not a pleasant expression. 

"Well, well, well. If it isn't X5-599." 

Inwardly, Adam frowned slightly at his words. Something rang familiar in them—_X5… X-series, like from the news…_ And since there seemed to be a certain amount of recognition in the other man's eyes, as he slowly gathered himself to his knees, ignoring his body's protests, he asked, "Do I know you?" 

The stranger paused, shrugged slightly with the shoulder of the arm that wasn't holding the gun. "Actually, no, we've never met," he drawled, maintaining a casual demeanor despite circumstances. "Although, I do know a fair amount about you." That didn't go over well with Adam. Maybe it was the maniacal gleam in the other man's eyes, or the fact that was point a gun at him, but something told him the stranger _wasn't_ a fan. He continued, "But you're supposed to be dead." 

Adam raised an eyebrow. _Really? No one told me_. "Sorry to disappoint." 

The man smiled again, and the gesture was no less menacing when viewed right side up. "You know, oddly enough, you haven't. In fact, I've never been quite so happy to see a piece of transgenic trash before." He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "You might even say you've made my day." 

The words sent an invisible chill down his spine. Then the man made a slight gesture, and Adam realized what was coming the instant before he felt the pain in the back of his head, and everything went black. 

  


~*~ 

  
The dark man putting away his gun looked up from the crumpled form before him and toward his boss. "Sir?" he inquired. "X5-599? One of the original twelve escapees, from 452's unit?" 

White gave him a smile, that strange half-twist of his mouth that passed for one, conveying his pleasure. "That, Otto," he said, slapping the other man's shoulder as he stepped over the still figure on the ground, "is correct." 

Another man stepped up to the pair. "Sir, what do we do about the vehicle?" All three men glanced over at the heap of metal at the side of the road. The events of the past several minutes had definitely taken their toll on it; it wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon unless hooked up to the back of a tow truck. 

"Nothing," White replied shortly. "Let the local sheriff clean it up—we got what we came for. Remember boys, we're not covert anymore." 

Two figures stepped forward, to carry the unconscious man to an armored transport. They were all here now—the dark convoy that had trekked down to this nothing town upon receiving report of a 9-1-1 call giving the whereabouts of an X-series by the name of Adam Thompson. 

"So, we're planning to keep 599 alive?" Otto asked after him. 

White continued walking, his agent trailing after him. "Call him a bargaining chip, if you will," he replied, but speaking more to himself than to the other man. "452 took someone I care about, and now I have someone important to her. And, unlike her, I'm willing to kill to get what I want." 

  


**_--to be continued--_ **


	4. Wronged

**Disclaimer:** The lyrics are from Morcheeba's "Shoulder Holsters". 

  
  
  


** Compromised **

  
Chapter 3: Wronged 

  
  
_Aren't you always getting scared of the future  
Aren't you always thinking someone will shoot you  
Aren't we always looking over our shoulders  
Aren't we always drawing guns from our holsters_

  
Terminal City was alive. Generators were up and running, the place had power, water flowing from the taps, an impressive supply of food and other necessities. People walked the streets, not as openly as those in other parts of the city, but more openly than their kind—_her_ kind—would have dared beyond the boundaries of this sanctuary. As far as Post-Pulse America was concerned, it was doing all right. 

So it could use a bit of an update on its décor, but the important thing was making it livable, not making it pretty. That's what Max told herself as she gazed upon the crumbling buildings, the trash-laden streets, and the general state of dilapidation. 

_Still, maybe an anti-littering by-law might help… this place really is a sty._

"Hey Max," a voice that was familiar despite the fact that it was speaking around a mouthful of food, caught her attention from behind. She turned to find Alec stuffing the remaining bit of chocolate bar past his lips, letting the wrapper fall guiltlessly to the concrete at their feet. 

Max stared at the bit of paper, and then glared back up at Alec. 

He gulped, the food moving visibly down his throat tract, a giant ball of artificial goodness. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he proceeded to lick the remaining brown smudges off his fingers. That's when he noticed Max's eyes boring into him. 

"What?" 

She stabbed a finger downward, "Pick that up." 

Alec laughed, but stopped mid-stride as he saw her expression. "You're serious?" he asked incredulously. She didn't waver as he met her gaze. "Max, look around you—we're in dump central. If it weren't for the piles of garbage out on the streets, there'd be nothing keeping the buildings from falling over." 

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared back at him, one skeptic eyebrow raised. "Really? Then please explain the purpose of this one candy wrapper, up here on the rooftop? Oh wait, let me guess," she drawled on sarcastically, "It's to lend support to the ceiling." 

"This candy wrapper," he said, indicating the object of their attention, "has yet to find its purpose. So I have placed it upon this rooftop in hope that the wind will carry it to wherever its presence may be required." He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, speaking to the wrapper now, "Go little wrapper, go and find your place in this world, go and find the reason for your being, the—" 

"Pick it up." 

Slightly irked at having his little monologue cut short, Alec straightened. "No." 

"Pick. It. Up." 

"Mmm… No." 

"Alec, if you don't pick it up _right now_—" 

"Hey guys… Am I interrupting something?" Logan stood hesitantly in the doorway of the stairwell leading down from the roof. 

Alec replied without skipping a beat, "Just a little lovers' spat. Nothing a good round of makeup sex won't fix." 

"Alec!" Max hissed, outrage shining on her features. She saw Logan duck his head slightly, hands shoved in his pockets. 

"Yes, schnookum-honey-baby-doll?" he practically sang, a smile almost as wide as his face accenting his words. 

Max frowned—at that atrocity of a pet name, more than anything else. "Why don't you go check on Sketchy? Make sure he's not getting into too much trouble, or anything." 

Alec's eyebrows rose in response. "You want _me_ to check on Sketchy, to make sure he isn't getting into trouble?" Then he shrugged. "Alright." He headed promptly for the stairs, but stopped beside Logan, putting a concerned hand on the other man's shoulder. "Say Logan, you don't look so good. You don't think the side-effects of your stay in Terminal City are kicking in already, do you?" 

Max was about to cut in, to forcefully get rid of Alec, if necessary, but Logan replied instead. "No, I'm fine, but what about you? I mean, you took one helluva beating from that Familiar the other week… you sure you're alright? Should you be up and about already?" 

The smile on Alec's face disappeared quickly as he said defensively, "Hey, I woulda had her, if it weren't for the bullet the sector cops put in my shoulder earlier." 

Logan nodded, patting the other man's back comfortingly. "Right. Of course." He received a glare in response. 

They both watched Alec leave, considerably less happy than he was seconds earlier. For a while, even after he was gone from sight, neither spoke. Then Logan turned to Max, watching her silently. 

"What?" she asked curiously. 

"You don't seem all that upset about the way I treated you boyfriend there." There was still an amount of awkwardness around that 'b' word. 

Max shrugged. "Everyone can use a little humbling every once in a while." Her gaze lingered momentarily in the direction Alec had disappeared, and she smiled slightly. "Some more than others." 

He nodded, and stepped further out onto the roof, hands still in his pockets, but suddenly there was something very serious about his demeanor. He wasn't looking directly at her, which was strange, and there was a small frown on his face. 

"Something up?" 

"Max," he said, finally gazing at her. 

"Logan," she replied, suppressing a sigh and trying not to think of all the things that could possibly be wrong now, "What is it?" 

He hesitated. "I got a message last night, at this special number I set up a few months back. I only checked it now… I really wasn't thinking that—" 

"From who?" she interrupted impatiently. There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her she wasn't going to like what he had to tell her, and a part of her—a small part very deep within her—was huffing about the fact that she couldn't even have a moment's peace, moving straight from one crisis onto the next. It was selfish thinking, she knew, and that's why she shoved the thought back down from where it'd come. 

"From the Garrett ranch, where"—he seemed to take a deep, fortifying breath before completing—"we set up Zack with his new identity." 

Max's eyes widened suddenly with comprehension. "Zack," she whispered so faintly that if it weren't for the movement of her lips, Logan would not have known she'd spoken at all. _Oh god, Zack_—how could she have forgotten? 

"What happened?" 

"Um, well there was a message from last night—it said that 'Adam' had discovered the connection between his barcode and the whole transgenic hype on the news." She winced at his words. Of course, she should have known. How could she think he would continue on, oblivious to what was going on in the rest of the world? This was _Zack_, after all; even if he didn't remember it, deep inside it was still him. Max's attention returned, full-force, to Logan as he said next, "Then there was another message from a couple of hours later that said he was headed to Seattle, to Terminal City actually—" 

"What? _Here_?" she sputtered. "From last night? But that means that… he should be—he should already have been here…" 

Logan interrupted. "Max, there was more to the second message. They—the police—found the truck Zack was driving when he left the ranch." He paused, grimacing slightly. "The tire was shot out, the truck was lying on the side of the road." 

"What?" Alarm flared through her. "What about Zack? Is he…?" She couldn't bring herself to finish the thought. 

"No, he wasn't there," Logan hastily answered. Then he looked at her significantly. "Max, the tire was _shot out_." He saw that her focus shift, and he continued. "A call came into the nearest 9-1-1 call center that same day, reporting an Adam Thompson as a transgenic with a visible barcode. But, tire shot out, quick job in the middle of the night, nothing in the news, and obviously the local police wasn't involved…" 

"White." 

He nodded. 

"I have to go, I have to find him." She moved to walk past him. 

"Max," he said, reaching out for her. But he froze, both of them staring down at his hand. The sleeves of her shirt would have protected him, but aside from that one hand-holding incident from earlier that week, things had been back to uncomfortable between them. He dropped his arm. "He doesn't remember anything. He made the connection, but he's still 'Adam'." 

"That only makes him more vulnerable." 

"That makes you _both_ more vulnerable," he corrected. 

"_I_ can take care of myself," she returned, rushing for the stairs. 

  


~*~

  
"Brother Zack's in trouble again," Alec said, leaning up against the wall, watching as Max gathered together supplies. 

"Brother Zack? You make him sound like a monk." 

He shrugged. "So, are we mounting the army, riding to the rescue?" He glanced around the room at their 'army', which was currently milling about, tending to various duties required in the successful restoration of Terminal City. 

"No army." To his questioning look, she elaborated, "None of these people even know Zack; I can't ask them to risk their lives for him. It'd be taking advantage of their trust in me." 

"Hey, I don't really know him either," Alec protested. "You still asked me along." 

Max paused, turning to stare at him. "You don't want to help me," she said flatly. She shouldn't have been surprised, not really—this was Alec. But after all they'd been through in the last few weeks, and that whole thing with Ben, how she'd finally opened up to him a bit… and even though they fought incessantly and drove each other insane, she'd thought they were past this point. 

She turned to leave, but his hand on her arm stopped her. Looking up into suddenly serious green eyes, "Hey, I didn't say that. I don't know him, not really, but if you ask me, of course I'll help." He grinned slightly, "Even if you didn't ask, I'd probably still tag along." 

Max watched him a moment, trying to gauge his sincerity. Then abruptly, she nodded, and turned to go. "Come on." They piled into Logan's Aztek—which he had leant them on the condition that they would return it without _too_ many new bullet holes—Max behind the steering wheel. 

"Hey, how come I can't drive?" Alec complained. "You never let me drive your ninja because it was 'your baby'… but what about now?" 

She looked at him pointedly. "I don't think Logan would be too happy with you driving his car—you know, circumstances being what they are." 

He considered that a moment. "Hmm, you're probably right. Maybe I shouldn't keep yanking his chain like that." Then he shrugged it off, pulling another chocolate bar from his jacket pocket. "Nah, it's just too much fun." 

The ride out of Terminal City was relatively quiet, each watching to make sure they weren't spotted. With perimeters extending as far and wide as they did, the sector police, the National Guard, the army—they couldn't watch every exit at every moment, especially when you factored in the numerous secret entrances the new inhabitants had been working to restore. Forgotten tunnels and previously barricaded roads gave them an advantage. And as the days passed on and the transgenics remained in their new home, leaving the rest of the world alone, the authorities became increasingly hesitant to make a move against them. Partly afraid of a possible, and likely, counterattack, and partly unsure as to how to justify an unprovoked offensive. Aside from what local news would have them believe, there was still a significant portion of the country's population that was strictly against genocide. 

"So," Alec began as they came up onto the sunlit streets, the danger of discovery behind them for now. "Since Zack doesn't have any of his memories back yet, does that mean he's not gonna go all psycho 'kill Logan, kill, kill, kill' on us?" When Max didn't reply, he continued on, "Of course, now that you and Logan are no longer 'together', that little green-eyed monster won't have to rear its ugly head, so Roller Boy should be safe anyway." Then he froze abruptly, turning toward her. "Wait a minute… now that _we're_ supposedly a thing, he's not going to try to kill _me_, is he?" 

Max threw him a sideways glance, her expression crossed somewhere between disgust and annoyance. "Zack only tried to kill Logan because Manticore brainwashed him to go after Eyes Only by making him believe he'd betrayed us and the mission. That's all. And if he tries to kill you, it has nothing to do with us being a 'thing', and everything to do with _you_." 

"Right," Alec returned, resettling in his seat, somewhat placated but not buying her entire argument. "This is Zack we're talking about. You told me that he was captured once and he refused to betray the locations of the other escapees, despite what they did to him." 

He looked toward her for confirmation, "So?" 

"Reprogramming would only have taken Manticore so far… it was Zack's feelings that turned him. His feelings for you. His very un-brotherly feelings for you." 

"Look, I already told you—" 

"You and Zack were 'never like that'." He sighed dramatically. "Yeah, yeah, I know. And you and Logan were 'never like that'. Apparently, the only person you were ever 'like that' with, is me. And I haven't even seen you naked yet, so what's that say?" 

Max shot him an outraged glare. "And you never _will_ see me naked!" 

"C'mon, Max, give a guy a little hope. Y'know that's the only reason I've stuck around here so long." 

"To see me naked." She arched an eyebrow. "You know, that's almost flattering." 

Alec grinned cockily, "If not with my devastating good looks, I'll win you with my charm." 

They sank into silence again, and Max returned to her thoughts. It didn't matter how Zack felt about her, she had to find him and get him back. She owed him that much; she owed _more_. Damn it! How could she have let this happen? So caught up in everything going down in Seattle, she had forgotten all about her brothers and sisters, the other escapees who had lived relatively anonymous lives in the 'real' world for the past eleven years. With all that had happened here, how had she impacted _their_ lives? Had any of them been discovered because of everything in the news? First, she took Zack away from them, now this. 

"What is it?" Alec inquired quietly, interrupting her self-recriminations. 

Max shook her head slightly, trying to clear her thoughts. "With everything that's been going on, I didn't even think of that. I didn't think of _him_." She shook her head again, this time a little more forcefully. "I _forgot_ about him. I completely forgot." 

"Hey," Alec replied, "it's understandable. You've had a lot on your plate. You _still_ have a lot on your plate." He grinned, trying to ease the mood. "Being the chosen one and leading the revolution and all—you can't really blame yourself." 

But she didn't want to be pacified; she didn't want her guilt eased. "No, it's not 'understandable'. Zack always looked after us—all of us. I should have been able to do the same for him." 

"You've been looking after a lot more than eleven escapees, Max. You've been trying to take care of the whole mess left behind by Manticore. And not by Manticore's destruction"—he interjected, before she could bring up that line of argument—"but by _Manticore_." Quietly, he added, "You've been taking care of us all." 

Still, despite his words, she couldn't help the heavy feeling in her chest. _Zack's heart_, she thought, _the ultimate sacrifice_. And the time he turned himself in for Vogelsang's murder, knowing that meant he would be taken back to Manticore. The night of the escape, when he let himself get caught in order to give the rest of them a chance to make it. He had done so much for her—for them all. _I should have been able to do the same for him._

She had to give him up so many times already… but no matter what happened, she would not give him up again. Never again. _I owe him that much._

  


**_--to be continued--_ **


	5. Jigsaw

**Disclaimer:** The lyrics come from Sarah McLachlan's "Black & White". 

  
**

Compromised 

**

  
Chapter 4: Jigsaw 

  
  
_ and the animal awakens  
and all i feel is black and white _

  
He was standing, in a room, maybe. He couldn't tell; it was all so hazy, even the walls--if he was indeed in a room and they were indeed walls--seemed somewhat insubstantial, just white mist… or was it black? It kept shifting back and forth, and then mixing together, he stared and stared and couldn't seem to decide on either… 

But he wasn't alone. 

Next to him, he felt the presence of another, waiting patiently at his side. He turned to have his gaze was filled with perhaps the most beautiful vision he'd ever seen. A girl--a woman--with dark hair and darker eyes, caramel skin, flawless, perfect features… 

Some vague form of recognition flared through him and even as he stared, enthralled by the sight, he knew it didn't matter how she looked--she would always be beautiful to him. There was something there that was deeper than the mere placement of her eyes, her lips, her nose… it had something more to do with the fire in her gaze, the slight quirk to her mouth, the defiant set to her chin… 

He met her eyes, large and round pools of chocolate. She smiled at him her full pink lips curving upward, and her expression… welcoming. Accepting. Like a hug, conveyed through her face, rather than her arms. 

"I know you," he said. 

The smile turned somewhat sad, wistful, and he immediately regretted his words, wishing he could take them back. He hadn't meant to make her unhappy. 

"You did, but you've forgotten now." 

His brow wrinkled minutely as he took in her words. 

Yes, he knew her--he _knew_ he knew her--but that was as far as it went. He couldn't say from where he knew her, what she was to him, or even recall her name… 

"I want to remember," he declared. 

She sighed and turned away, staring ahead with a distant gaze. He wondered what she could possibly find of interest in the massing whirl of black-white that was the wall. His head turned, following her sight, and found he found himself staring at… an ocean? 

An ocean in the room? 

But no, there was no room. If ever there had been one, it wasn't there anymore. 

And there were rocks under his shoed feet, and some sort of a dock in the distance. The sky overhead was gray and dreary and seagulls circled above the water and above them. There was something vaguely familiar about the scene… 

"You remembered once," she said softly, "But you remembered wrong… and then you had to forget again." 

He shifted his confused gaze from their surroundings back to her. "I remembered wrong?" He couldn't say what that even meant, and he studied her profile, awaiting clarification. 

She nodded. "They made you remember wrong." When she turned back to him, her doe eyes were soft and sad. "I want you to remember right. Then you won't have to forget, ever again." Raising one hand slowly, her outstretched fingers stopped just short of his face. He watched, and waited, tempted to complete the motion for her, but afraid of what might happen if he did. "Then you won't have to go away, ever again." 

"Then tell me," he demanded in a fierce, desperate whisper. "Tell me so I can remember right." He leaned closer to her touch, without meeting it. 

"I can't," she returned, voice equally quiet and full of regret, remorse. "I can't make you remember. You have to do that on your own." She reached up further, reaching in infinite slowness to brush his forehead. But before she could finish, he saw that she was starting to become insubstantial, her body fading right before his eyes. 

"It's all in here," she continued in a ghost-like voice that accompanied her translucent form. "All you have to do is find it." He could see right through her, see the beach and the docks behind her. 

"Find what?" he said, sounding somewhat frantic, as he watched her progressive disappearance. 

She was almost entirely gone now, but she still managed to answer, "The past…" 

_Without the past, there is no future._

And then she was gone, but before he could dwell too much on the fact--or her words--he was rudely awakened, his head jarring violently to one side with the force of a blow. 

"Wakey, wakey," a vaguely familiar voice intoned in false cheerfulness. 

Adam opened his eyes to pain, and the cause of his pain--the stranger with the gun, the one who'd run him off the road earlier. His shoulders felt like they were on fire, and his sides throbbed with the strain, while various other aches and pains hovered in the background of his attention. As he came to complete awareness, he realized the reason for his more prominent pains--he'd been suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains that encased his wrists, leaving his arms to hold the rest of his body upright. 

They were in a dark room with bare cement walls and floors; no windows, just a single door the only entrance and exit. The chains hooked onto pipes that hung from the ceiling, leading him to consider that this were perhaps a warehouse or a basement of some sort. 

He cleared his throat, wanted desperately for a glass of water, but ignoring the desire just as he ignored the hoarseness of his voice as he spoke. "Care to tell me what this is all about?" 

The other man circled him slowly, his thorough gaze taking in Adam's appearance, from head to toe, in careful study. His shoes clicked against the concrete floor with every step. 

"So, this is the great X5-599… the CO, the man behind the big escape of '09." He completed a full 360-degree perusal and came to a stop right in front of him. Their eyes met--one pair brown and dark with twisted amusement and smug satisfaction, the other gray and stoic. 

Adam stared back blankly, the other man's words making absolutely no sense to him. 

"You don't look so great right now, 599." 

"My name is Adam. I don't know why you keep calling me that." 

That wasn't the truth, not entirely. Just the other day he'd told Mary and Buddy that he was sure Adam wasn't his real name… but until he had something else, something better than a string of numbers, that was what he'd stick to. 

"Actually," the man said, cocking his head slightly to one side, "from what I hear, you were called Zack"--something flickered briefly inside Adam, but he kept the reaction to himself--"but it doesn't really matter. Either way, you're going to die." 

He rolled his eyes, the melodrama just too much for him to ignore. "And is this the part where you tell me your plan to take over the world?" 

The man's smirk disappeared, gaze narrowing minutely. "Sarcasm," he drawled unappreciatively, "is it something they engineered into your genes? You and your fellow transgenic scum seem to have that trait in common." 

The pain in Adam's shoulders--especially the right one--was getting a little distracting, but he kept from attempting to shift to a more comfortable position, not wanting to let his captor onto the weakness. "Well, see, I can't help you with that one--considering I have no idea what you're talking about." 

Stepping back, the stranger's posture relaxed as he brought his hand up to his chin thoughtfully. "You know, there's something I've been wondering, something that's been weighing on my mind since we tracked you down…" A slight grin twitching on his lips. "How is that you're playing farmer Bob, tending to the cows and the pigs and the chickens, while 452's running Transgenic Central?" He seemed to miss the slight jolt that passed through the other man's body. "I mean, where did you get that little setup?" he laughed. 

Adam hardened his jaw, but didn't answer. After a few moments, the other man walked back toward him, stopping only when they were eye-to-eye, faces barely inches apart. "You really don't remember, do you?" he inquired in a quiet, amused voice. "You don't remember _anything_ about who you are, where you're from." Then he laughed again, easing back. "I didn't believe it, not at first, but it's true." 

"Glad you find it so amusing," Adam returned dryly. 

"Oh, it's fucking hilarious… and I'm wondering if 452 knows about this little condition of yours, or is that just another treat I get to pop on her." 

Whoever this 452 was, Adam couldn't help but feel apprehensive, hearing the malice in the man's tone as he spoke of her. What could she ever have done to earn so much hate from this one individual? Surely it went beyond the whole "transgenic scum" mentality he was supporting. 

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. 

"Yes," the man called out. 

The door opened and a dark-haired man, with matching eyes and complexion peered in. "Sir," he said, a bit hesitant to intrude, "it's time." 

The first man nodded. "Alright. Let's go." He headed toward the door, and the other man moved aside to give him passage while glancing at Adam. 

"Sir, what about him?" 

His superior paused, and shot a backward look at Adam. "What about him?" 

The second man shifted uncertainly from his boss to the prisoner. "Aren't we taking him?" 

He was met with a condescending, incredulous stare. "Why would we take along our only bargaining chip?" 

"I just thought, sir--" 

"Well, there's your problem, Otto," the other man interrupted. "You should leave the thinking to more capable individuals." 

He nodded. "Yes sir." 

The door clicked closed behind the pair as they exited the room, leaving Adam still suspended from the ceiling. He raised himself to his toes, using the extra few inches to stretch his shoulders, and then tested the strength of his bonds. No luck--he was firmly rooted in place unless someone chose to free him. 

That someone arrived not much later, though freedom did not appear to be the intended goal. Four men entered the room, two with weapons drawn and visible, the other two holding even more restraints--all expressionless and dressed in nondescript suits. One man wrapped his ankles in heavy chains, while another adjusted the set around his wrists so he was no longer linked to the pipes. He was clearly intended to make a little trip to… somewhere. 

"Let's go," one of the armed men barked out, gesturing with his gun when the other two were done. He and the other armed man took up position behind him, and he gave a hard nudge for emphasis. 

Adam stumbled forward, his stride restricted by the heavy chains the movement they allowed him. The group left the room, the first two men flanking Adam as they walked into a dark, narrow hall, with bare cement walls. 

"I don't see why we need all the security," someone grumbled quietly behind him, but he heard the words easily. "Guy doesn't even know he's a trannie… forget about the training they're all supposed to have had." 

"We need the security because White said we need it," came the impatient response from the man who'd pushed him. "That's good enough for me." 

The man at his right side snorted slightly. "White's just fanatical about these things 'cause he hates them all. Plus, he"--referring to him, Adam realized--"supposedly has something to do with 452…" 

452--how many times was he going to have to hear those numbers again, while having no idea whom they referred to? And yet, she seemed to be the primary reason for his current condition, according to what the other man--White--had revealed in their earlier conversation. Hadn't he called him a 'bargaining chip'? 

What was Adam to this 452 that gave these people such a leverage having him in their custody? 

"That's enough," the pusher interrupted. "You can discuss this later; right now, we've got our orders to fill." 

As they turned a corner, Adam stumbled over his ankle chains. The man at his right caught his arm at the elbow, supporting his weight to keep him from meeting the floor, and Adam used that instant to deliver a backward kick that knocked one of the men behind him--the pusher--straight and hard into the wall. Before his leg could fully return to the ground, he twisted his body around in mid-air, and used the other foot to kick the weapon from the second man's hands. It landed a few meters away from the group, skittering along, metal dragging against concrete. 

Inevitably, the maneuver ended with Adam on the ground, on his back, but he quickly somersaulted backward, finishing in a crouching position, his still-chained arms held before him. The man who'd been on his left side was drawing out his own gun, but before he could complete the motion, Adam grabbed his arm and threw one elbow up into his face, hearing the squelching noise of a nose breaking. While the other man screamed and brought his free hand up to his injury, Adam kicked him backward, right into the first man he'd hit--the one he'd knocked into the wall and had just now recovered. Both bodies toppled to the ground in a tangled heap, the bottom man hitting his head, with a loud thud, against the cement. 

That left the other two still attended to: the one who'd been behind him, whose gun he'd kicked away, and who was currently scrambling toward said gun; and the fourth one, who'd been on his right, and who was now stumbling in the opposite direction, desperately pulling something from his coat pocket. At first, Adam thought maybe a gun, but then he realized it was something far worse… a radio. 

He was going to call for backup. 

Adam lunged at the man, crossing the distance between them in one smooth leap, and with a grunt from the other man, he brought them both to the ground. The little two-way radio was still clutched tight in his grip. 

Adam caught the hand, tried to pry the little black rectangle away, but the other man hung on as if his life depended upon it. Impatient, Adam raised the hand in his grasp and brought it down mercilessly against the concrete. There was a cracking sound, but still the object didn't come free. Another similar blow and he could _feel_--not only hear--the bones snap beneath the force. 

A strangled cry escaping his victim's lips and the radio dropped to the floor. 

Wasting no time, Adam jumped to his feet and crushed the instrument beneath one boot, pieces of plastic and metal littering the area. Then he turned his head just in time for his gaze to lock with the final man still standing, who had by now recovered his weapon and was raising it to shoot. Adam ducked, barely escaping the line of fire as the bullet lodged itself into the wall behind him. 

Shit, that was close. 

Of course, he didn't wait to give the other man a chance to get it right, and using speed beyond what he'd known himself capable of--but on some level failed to surprise him--he burst forth and snatched the gun right from his hands. Then he brought the butt of the weapon down across that man's forehead, knocking him out cold. 

Adam straightened and surveyed the damage. Two men unconscious, another an incoherent mess, blood pooling down his face, his nose swollen to twice its normal size. He realized that he might have hit him harder than he intended… the nose was a sensitive area, if he'd knocked the bones back far enough… 

He bent down beside the man, searching his pockets until he came up with a set of keys. Quickly, he undid his chains, letting them drop to the ground noisily, metal links clinking against one another. Then he stood and turned to the fourth man, the one with the broken fingers. He was on his back now, staring up at him with the fear in his eyes so blatant that Adam was torn between shame and a sense of satisfaction. He cradled his ruined hand to his chest as Adam slowly walked to his side. 

The sound of his heavy breathing and the moans of the man with the broken nose were the only noises heard in the little passageway as, with deliberate care, he lowered himself to a crouch. 

His fingers ventured forward, procuring the man's gun from where it still rested… never once drawn, never once fired, throughout the entire altercation. He held the weapon casually, without even looking at it. 

"Where did he go?" he asked quietly. 

"W-who?" the other man stuttered. He suddenly discovered his own gun pressed against his left kneecap. His already saucer-round eyes widened even further. 

"You know, there are many areas of the human body that can take a bullet wound without causing a… quick… death." The safety clicked off. "Doesn't mean it won't still be painful." 

A bead of sweat rolled down the man's forehead, and he swallowed thickly as he eyed the progression of the finger that was slowly squeezing down on the trigger. 

"Of course, it would keep you distracted from those broken fingers." 

Any second now… any second, there would be a loud noise and an excruciating, blinding explosion of pain… 

"Alright!" he gasped out, his voice a strangled sound that just barely escaped his lips. "Alright, I'll tell you!" 

'Adam' allowed himself a cold smile, finger easing off slightly, though it didn't lift away completely. 

"I'm listening." 

  


_--to be continued--_


	6. Reunions

**A/N:** Me, naughty writer; you, (hopefully) forgiving readers. I had a difference of opinion with my M/Z muse, and for several months we weren't on speaking terms. But we've reconciled now, and we both agree it's about time we got back to the story. 

So…spank me, forgive me, review me. 

An extra special thanks to Deb, without whom I'm sure I would have given up on this story permanently. 

And thanks to everyone who still continued to review the story despite months of inactivity. You kept it from dying a quiet death…though sometimes your encouragement earned angry glares from the frustrated author. 

  
**

Compromised 

**

  
Chapter 5: Reunions 

  
  
"An ambush," Alec hissed, ducking behind the metal canisters just in time to avoid a new hail of bullets that came flying in the duo's direction. His side burned with pain where one had grazed his flesh earlier, but he forced himself to push the sensation aside and concentrate on avoiding any further damage. "Should've known it'd be a _fucking_ ambush!" 

Well, in all fairness, he _had_ known. It was just Max who hadn't listened to him, too far gone in her concern for dear ol' Zack to give much consideration to their own safety. He understood her guilt-really, he did…but the girl really had to learn to balance her priorities. When she set her mind to something, it was like she completely forgot about everything else around her…every_one_ around her. 

For perhaps the thousandth time since that fateful day he strolled into her cell-and, essentially, into her life-Alec cursed his own stupidity. Manticore had tried to teach him that emotional ties were a weakness…but would he ever listen? 

He eyed the temperamental brunette who crouched down, tense, beside him. Her expression was grim, but there was that familiar firm set to her mouth as she leaned back against the barrier, her position nearly identical to his own. 

Peering the over the top once more, he fired off a couple of shots. 

So much for Logan's intel. Oh, he'd gotten them the location of the warehouse, all right, but it seemed that White had been expecting them all along. Alec was almost ashamed; he'd never thought he'd see the day where he, with his two decades of military training, would be duped by the Familiar. Again, he blamed it on Max's bad influence. He remembered being a better soldier than this back in the day. This was just so…unprofessional. And to top it off, as far as he could tell, Zack was nowhere on site. No doubt, as part of White's plan, safely stashed away at some highly secured facility awaiting his attention. Alec-and Max-had expected the Familiar to use him as a bargaining chip, in exchange for his missing son, but apparently he had other intentions. 

"We're gonna have to try to make a break for it," he told Max as he fell back into place. They were cornered. All White had to do was wait until the pair ran out of bullets, which wouldn't be long at this rate, and then they'd be sitting ducks. 

Speaking of whom, the familiar-no pun intended-voice called out into the sudden quiet, "Come on, 452, make it easier for all of us. There's nowhere for you two to go." 

Alec rolled his eyes, but turned toward Max. "You'd better answer him, or he's going to get all antsy and start wondering what we're up to." 

Her expression conveyed a similar degree of annoyance at the agent's words. "Right," she returned loudly, "and I bet you'll even promise not to hurt us if we cooperate." 

Her gaze focused on Alec, who was giving directions via hand signals. A curt nod was her only response. 

"Well, no…" White replied; they could practically hear the smirk in the agent's voice. "But how about we work out something in terms of a quick and painless death?" 

Alec heard her let out a soft snort. "When you put it like that…" she drawled sarcastically. "Fuck you." 

He saw her turning to get into a better position from which to launch herself to her feet. Alec grabbed her arm and turned her back, shoving the butt of a gun in her direction when she glanced at him questioningly. He'd liberated it from one of White's men on their way inside the warehouse, when he'd informed Max that the place was too quiet and he didn't feel right about the whole thing. 

She swiveled toward him, her eyebrows drawn together as her mouth tightened to reflect her displeasure. "No way. You know my policy." 

She hadn't listened then either. 

"And here's _my_ policy," he returned impatiently. "Stay alive. Which you won't be doing if you rush into a crowd of armed, trigger-happy goons with nothing of your own." He paused briefly, tilting his head as he heard the sounds of movement. White's men were closing in on them while they sat here, arguing. Alec shook his head in irritation, "And not to mention the fact that they're led by a sociopath who has admittedly made it his life's goal to kill you." 

As if to punctuate Alec's words, White continued, "I don't think you get it, 452. It wasn't your death I was talking about…you, I'm going to enjoy killing. 494 too," he seemed to add as an afterthought. 

Alec rolled his eyes heavenward, mouthing the word 'goody' in response. So nice to know he hadn't been forgotten. 

"But your C.O. there…" White paused, giving a dark chuckle, "What's he going by now? Adam?" 

Alec heard a sharp intake of breath from Max, so soft he wouldn't have picked it up if it weren't for his enhanced senses. White let the threat hang in the air, and Alec watched the myriad of emotions pass over her face, settling finally on a sort of blank determination. Her jaw clenched, and she took the proffered gun from him without another word. 

"Max," he began uncertainly, a sense of unease pouring through him. As relieved as he was that she'd conceded on that particular point, he knew White was merely goading her-even if there was truth behind his threats. 

"Ready?" she demanded, ignoring his concerned look. 

Alec paused. Goading or not, what other choice did they have? 

"Yeah." He turned to his own side, his body tensing in preparation. _Eight bullets left… Gotta make 'em count._

But before either transgenic could make a move, the world exploded in chaos. 

  


*****

  
She ran right into him, and his free hand came up to steady her. In the other was the semi-automatic gun he'd liberated from one of the men who'd gone down in the explosion he'd set off moments earlier. It was a definite step up from the 9mm he'd been toting before that. 

The air was so thick with smoke and debris that neither of them saw the other until it was almost too late to avoid their collision course. She instinctively brought up her own hands in defense, and he released her, taking a step back to give her room. 

Her eyes widened as she finally focused on his face, and her arms went slack, easing down to her sides. 

"Zack," she whispered, voice hitching slightly. 

Then something collided into her from behind, sending her flying forward, almost right into him. Only her hands, stretched out flat against his chest, kept her upright. He glanced down and was surprised to find that one was still awkwardly gripping a black Beretta. 

_"I don't do guns."_

"Fuck, Max!" the source of the impact hissed out angrily, drawing his attention away from that brief flash of memory. "What the hell-" 

"Ben?" 

It was said softly; just one small word, but it ended the outburst abruptly. The other man glanced over sharply. 

"Hey, no," he said quickly, hazel eyes widening for some reason. "I'm Alec-his non-psychotic, much more charming, identical twin." And then, adding as an afterthought, "And that's not just something I came up with to keep the cops off my back." 

Zack frowned at that, realizing he must still have a ways to go in recovering his memory; almost none of that made any sense to him. He forced himself to push aside the distraction as his fingers tightened on the gun in his hand. 

"Zack, what-" Max began, but he cut her off abruptly. 

"No time. Let's go," he said, his words swift and clipped. It was an order, not a suggestion, and it fell from his lips naturally. As did the expectation that it would be followed without question. 

"Sounds like a plan," the man who'd identified himself as Alec said, urging the reluctant brunette along. 

The trio made their way out of the building, the sounds of their pursuers recovering and regrouping after the unexpected attack following them. Outside, Zack led them toward the barren land behind the compound. Out front was where White and his men had left their vehicles. That would have been the predictable route, Zack decided quickly, and even if they encountered minimal resistance acquiring one of them, it wouldn't provide them with much of a head start. Nor would they have time to shoot out the tires of the remaining vehicles. 

No, they'd have a better chance going for the truck he'd stashed off the road on the other side of that patch of woods just up ahead. Once they reached the cover of the trees, the men after them wouldn't have a chance. Not without their combination of enhanced vision, speed, and agility. Neither of his two companions questioned his choice. 

The line of trees, and the line of fence encasing the property, still loomed a good fifty yards ahead when gunfire sounded behind them. Zack twisted around to return a few rounds, hearing Alec do the same. 

More bullets, and suddenly Alec cursed. The sound of a body hitting the ground made him pause. 

"Alec!" Max cried out. 

Zack saw her start to backtrack, but Alec called out in a strained voice, "Damn it, Max, go!" 

"Alec, I can't-" 

Zack caught the look the other man sent him; he'd never make the twelve-foot high mesh fence on only one good leg. He grabbed Max's arm. 

"I'll cover you," Alec instructed him. 

He tossed the semi-automatic to Alec, who caught it and immediately put it to good use. "Max," Zack said sternly. 

"Hurry!" Alec yelled out over the sound of gunfire. 

While Max hesitated, Zack gripped her arm tight and pulled her alongside him, so she was forced to either comply or fight him off. He released her when she finally opted for the former. He spared a glance in her direction and saw the hard look of determination on her face, as she ran beside him, keeping up to his pace. 

He didn't have to look at her again to know that she'd cleared the fence right with him, and soon they had both entered the safety of the trees, their darkness blanketing the pair. 

The fading sounds of battle behind them ended abruptly. 

  


*****

  
Only once the other two transgenics were obviously out of sight did Alec stop firing. Lowering his weapon, Alec made an exaggerated show of tossing it aside, before dropping heavily onto his back. 

"Hey guys," he said. He raised his hands in surrender, elbows resting on the hard ground. "Unarmed, injured, potential ransom here; don't go doin' anything crazy." 

They approached him slowly, with caution. Until White stalked up right through the midst of his agents, all of who stepped aside for their boss like a timid Red Sea parting for a rage-a-holic Moses. 

Without hesitation, White raised the gun, aiming it directly at the center of Alec's forehead. He smiled humorously. "I don't need you alive to use you as bait, 494." 

Alec smiled back lazily. "But if you killed me, you'd miss my wit and good-natured ribbing." 

White leaned in close, crouching over the prone figure. "The only thing I'll miss is hearing your screams of agony as you beg for your death." He stood slowly and placed the gun back in its holster before saying, "Which is reason enough to keep you alive." 

He started to walk away, but before Alec could breathe a sigh of relief for that brief, albeit grim, stay of execution, the Familiar quickly turned and slammed a foot into his wound. Alec released an involuntary grunt of pain, just barely stopping himself from reaching for the leg at the sight of the half dozen or so guns attached to tense fingers and trained solely on him. 

White smiled with genuine pleasure. "I'll be sure to make the most of our remaining time together, 494." 

  


_--to be continued--_

  


(hopefully, in less than 10 months)


End file.
